


The Unquiet Grave

by epkitty



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Canonical Character Death, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-07
Updated: 2011-03-07
Packaged: 2017-10-16 04:04:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/168226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conversation long overdue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Unquiet Grave

“You shouldn’t be here.”

Boromir chuckled humorlessly at this accusation. He turned away to place his hands on the stone rail of the balcony. “I always loved standing here,” he spoke softly, seemingly unconcerned at whether his listener could hear the words that came in a low rumble. “At dusk, especially in the ripeness of summer, the White City shines like a jeweled crown, reflecting all the colors of the earth for a brief, dazzling moment before the sun sinks to the west.”

The King approached to stand at his shoulder, looking out over the sprawling city that climbed up to the castle’s very walls. Boromir was right. The colors of the sunset, of the forest, of the ocean, somehow mingled to reflect off the white walls and silver tiled roofs in a luminous flaring light until darkness swept the city, a pale light in the western sky all that remained. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Boromir peered over his shoulder and then turned, no more sights to be seen from the high balcony. “I think you work too hard.”

“You sound like my wife.”

Boromir laughed again, his smile lighting his face as it always did. He strode past to enter the great room and move to the fireplace. He sat there in the crimson upholstered chair to stare into the flickering flames. “Your wife is right, then. You look tired.”

“You might have something to do with that.”

Boromir grinned, catlike, and looked up to where the dark-haired man stood behind the opposite chair. “It is likely, my King.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sit, Aragorn,” Boromir answered, gesturing with a broad, elegant wave of his arm.

Fierce, grey eyes regarded the chair balefully. Aragorn carefully removed the beautifully crafted crown from his brow and set it on a velvet cushion before moving to sit stiffly across from the smiling man. “So? I’m sitting.”

“Good. You _should_ be resting, but somehow I don’t think I’d be able to entice you into a bed.” Boromir wasn’t smiling.

“Not now.”

“No, not now.” Boromir turned to lean an elbow on the arm of his chair, and rest his cheek in the palm of his hand. He stared grimly into the orange and yellow lights of the fire, and Aragorn watched the play of the flames on his weathered face. Sensing the intense concentration, Boromir glanced up. “You look grieved.”

Those grey eyes regarded him, and the deep emotions were clear in the sparkling depths. “I am.” The King turned away, staring in turn at the fire.

“It has been a twelve-month and a day,” Boromir offered. “Your mourning should be done. Let it go.”

“How can I?” Aragorn asked, moving suddenly to lean forward and meet his gaze unflinchingly. “How can I let go…”

“Twas no fault of yours. All your life, Aragorn, you have given all that you had to give. If it was yours to sacrifice, you would. If it was yours to give away, you would do so.”

“I am not so generous with my heart,” the King pointed out warily.

“Indeed,” Boromir allowed. “You speak truth. But while Arwen was deserving of it, I was not.”

“How can you say that?” The pain evinced in Aragorn’s raspy voice nearly broke Boromir’s heart a second time.

The warrior did not answer. “As I was saying, you give much of yourself, all that you can. To the good of your friends, your family, and now to Gondor, and indeed the whole of Middle Earth. There is no more you could have given.”

“You mean there is no more I could have done. To make things right; there was nothing I could do.”

“But you did make things right,” Boromir softly protested. “Things are as they should be. Thanks to you, everything is as it should be.”

Aragorn regarded him with wonder, and when he asked his next question, it seemed as if Boromir’s answer would tip a very important scale in its final direction. “Do you really mean that?”

“With all that is left of my heart.”

These troubling words forced Aragorn’s eyes to close and his head to bow. His hands twisted together in a pained knot and he sighed a wistful breath. “How can I believe that?” he asked in words so soft they were barely heard.

“You have to. You must. You cannot doubt, Aragorn. This new age is a time for hope, not despair. You, you and so many other great men and women brought this hope to all lands. And as their king, they see that hope embodied within you, and rightly so. To doubt now is folly. To regret now is useless. To mourn now…”

“Is what, Boromir?”

“To mourn now is to keep me here against my will. Let it go.”

“Let you go?”

Boromir’s ghostly eyes filled with ethereal tears. “Yes.”

Tears as tangible as raindrops fell from the king’s eyes and he dropped to his knees on the floor before his vaporous visitor. He could feel the chill of the air before him and could not suppress a shiver. He gathered his seemingly unending courage to look up and again meet that hazel green gaze. “I have tried,” he gasped, almost sobbing. “I have tried, my brother.”

“Yet, still I am bound to this damned earth. Release me. Release me, Aragorn, if it is within your power to do so, before I come to hate you for this torment.”

“Torment?”

“Aye. Everyday. Every night. I see food I crave but cannot eat. I see beds I long for but cannot sleep. And I see you. I see you every hour of every day. I see you weep and cannot embrace you. I see you suffer and cannot comfort you. I see you, I see you and I cannot touch you. And you mourn me still. Why?”

“Why? Because of all I have lost. Because of all you have suffered.”

“Think not on loss and suffering,” Boromir begged. “Think on what you have gained. Think on the few moments shared between us when there was nothing but joy.”

“Think of our love?” Aragorn asked.

Boromir looked taken aback as he straightened in his seat. “Aye. Think on our love. If it comforts you.”

Aragorn sat back on his knees and bent at the waist, one hand flat on the woven hearthrug, the other fisted against his chest. His tears fell, wet and thick, onto the rug, where they soaked into the crimson and purple cloth, darkening the colors where they fell. “Our love,” he whispered as if it was a mantra. “Our love…”

“Yes.”

Aragorn’s thick black mane fell in shining waves to hide his face. And he thought. And he remembered.

= = =

He remembered a hushed conversation in Rivendell, when they had spoken of camp and war, of beef and ale, of drink and women. And sometimes of men.

He remembered a strong sword arm in the heat of battle, protecting the hobbits, fighting alongside dwarf, elf, and wizard. Sometimes alongside him.

He remembered a smiling face on the hard road, a man willing to share a song or story with the fellowship. Sometimes just with him.

He remembered a comforting hand in the dark of Moria, all that grounded him in that world of darkness. Sometimes more than a hand.

He remembered a warm body in the forests of Lorien, tender and comforting. Sometimes loving.

He remembered the words of a dying man. Vows, secrets, oaths. My brother. Brother in arms. Brother of Gondor. Brother of Man. My captain. Captain of the guard. Captain of Gondor. Captain of Boromir’s own heart. My king. King of all. King of Gondor. His king, Boromir’s own.

= = =

He remembered and was filled with light, a warmth unremembered for twelve months and a day, a warmth kindled by love, not loss. A warmth that could replace the cold of death and destruction.

He looked up to thank his ghostly companion who had dogged his steps and shadowed his life for a year and a day.

Boromir was gone.

But that was all right.

For Aragorn was certain, the same warmth that filled his heart was the warmth that had set the other free.

= = = = =

The End

 

from 'The Unquiet Grave'

Cold blows the wind to my true love  
And gently drops the rain.  
I only have but one true love  
And in greenwood he lies slain.  
I’ll do as much for my true love  
As any young girl may.  
I’ll sit and mourn all on his grave  
For a twelvemonth and a day.

**Author's Note:**

> My story is based on the old folk song of the same name, which is inspired by the Indo-European superstition that excessive mourning will not let rest the dead. There are many versions of the song, and it often ends with the living lover begging a kiss of the ghost, who angrily warns her that his kiss will bring her death. This she gladly accepts.


End file.
